


You Can Replace a Broken Screen but Not a Broken Heart

by ckret2



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Angst, Demiromantic Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mentioned Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Relationship(s), Post-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckret2/pseuds/ckret2
Summary: Two decades ago, Alastor crawled out of a devastating breakup. He’s been trying to recover ever since.Today, Vox istryingto crawl out of a devastating breakup. Alastor could help him.But he doesn’t.
Relationships: Alastor & Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Valentino/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 86





	You Can Replace a Broken Screen but Not a Broken Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was written via request for [hanekdraws](https://hanekdraws.tumblr.com/) and [gothamopossum](https://gothamopossum.tumblr.com/), who requested: “ValVox Pt 1: Things arent great for Vox and it shows. Alastor, post breakup, understands him for once and is deeply uncomfortable about empathizing with The Enemy. ValVox Pt 2: Vox and Valentino make up. Alastor is like wait u can do that?”
> 
> I’ve got a headcanon backstory for who Alastor’s breakup was with but I didn’t explicitly reference it in the fic because 1) the focus is on Alastor’s emotions about the breakup, not the relationship itself, so no reason readers shouldn’t be allowed to read it imagining whichever ship best fits the story for them; and 2) I kinda headcanon that Alastor copes with things that upset him by suppressing them really really hard.
> 
> Warning: you know the physical abuse we’ve been seeing Val give Vox over on the Instagram accounts? This is a fic _about_ the fallout of that kind of abuse, and Vox is _not_ going to be treated with the sympathy and kindness he rightfully deserves. And Alastor isn’t going to come out of this fic looking good either.

Two decades ago, Alastor was with somebody.

Now he isn’t. It still hurts.

You need to know that much, but you don’t need to know more than that.

###

"It's hideous," Alastor muttered, casting a dark, distrustful look at the television nestled on a high shelf behind Mimzy's bar and flanked by the high-price drinks.

"Oh, hush." Mimzy leaned across the counter to smack Alastor's arm. "It brings in customers. They like watching sports."

"The _customers_ ," Alastor scoffed. He sipped at his ginger ale and cast the same distrustful look around at the bar's current guests. "Is this the crowd you want to attract? I don't think there's anyone in here who was born before we died."

"You've been spending too much time around Rosie. You can't tell their age if they change their clothes."

"Oh, _can't_ you?" Alastor nodded toward the television. "Anyway, there's no sports on right now." The screen was currently displaying a garish array of colored bars and blocky white text reading "VSPN-TV / Pentagram City". He supposed that was television's equivalent of dead air. How unprofessional. "You can turn it off, can't you?"

"Are you _that_ offended by a TV you can look away from?" Mimzy asked archly. "I'm hoping the signal will come back on, half the customers are here to see a gladiatorial match that's supposed to be broadcast. Big match between Cadaverphagus the Horrific versus Bruno, Son of Cerberus."

"Not even worth watching. Caddy's been disemboweling the competition for twenty-two hundred years. Next to him, Bruno's more puppy than hellhound."

"Be that as it may, the customers are here for the show and they'll start leaving if I don't look like I'm at least trying to give it to them." She lowered her voice, raised her brows, and glanced past Alastor. "Besides, I'm hoping keeping it on might shame _him_ into doing something about the broadcast."

Alastor followed Mimzy's gaze, covered up a swear with a beep, and turned back toward Mimzy to heatedly ask, "What's that _blockhead_ doing here?"

"He's a semi-regular," Mimzy said, shrugging.

"Since when?!"

"Since about the time you _stopped_ being a regular."

Alastor had moved to the Cannibal Colony, oh, around seven years ago? "So he waited until I was out of the way to move in on my favorite bartender, is that it?" Alastor tisked judgmentally. "And why haven't you sent him packing?"

Mimzy shrugged again. "Why should I? He rarely starts fights and he pays his tab."

"Oh, that's no excuse. I've never paid my tab and you _adore_ me."

Mimzy gasped in mock offense. "Mister Alastor, that's a rare privilege I offer you! Don't tell me you take it for granted!"

"Never! There are no words to adequately explain my gratitude." He glanced over his shoulder and muttered, "But seriously. Why do you let him hang around here?"

In a booth near the corner, the bottom of his brick of a head propped up in a hand, staring blearily into an empty shot glass like he was consulting a magic 8-ball for wisdom, sat Vox. The table in front of him was covered in empty glasses and a couple of half-eaten snack plates with fried potato skins and devils on horseback—how in hell did Vox eat with a slab of glass for a face?

"I'd be stupid to try to run him off, wouldn't I?" Mimzy said, calling Alastor's attention back to her. "Especially considering how powerful he is. Plus with the fact that you haven't been around, well..."

That was what Vox liked to do, wasn’t it. Any time Alastor wasn’t around, Vox crept into the gaps he left behind. He was an opportunistic mechanical vulture, snatching up electrical infrastructure that had been abandoned—or that their rightful owners were too incapacitated to defend. 

"Well, I'm around _now_ , aren't I?" Alastor tilted his head toward Vox. "Do you want me to run him off for you?"

Mimzy hesitated, grimacing.

"Oh no. What is it?"

Delicately, Mimzy said, "He's not just in the power grid. These days, he's a big media figure, you know. He runs just about every major TV station, most FM stations, even some... film studios..."

Alastor's invisible studio audience let out a synchronized shocked gasp. "Don't tell me you've been cozying up to that big phony for a movie deal!"

"No, of course not! I'm happy with my bar!" Mimzy insisted. "But—you know—if I ever want to get back into Hollywood, I'm going to need to know the right people, make the right connections, that sort of thing. It can't hurt to network with one of the studio bigwigs..."

"So you've turned to _television?_ " Alastor leaned back from the counter, a hand on his chest. "Sweetheart, you have utterly betrayed me."

"Oh, go on."

"I'm devastated."

"My goodness."

"I'll never get over this." Alastor stood and tilted his head toward Vox. "Give me one of whatever he's having."

Mimzy flinched, her expression immediately switching from indulgent exasperation to concerned alarm. "Alastor, you aren't—"

"Not for me," he said hastily. "I want to make a charitable donation to vacuum brain's future hangover."

He was embarrassed. Sure, he enjoyed worrying his friends, but only when he was doing it on purpose. And more when they were worried _by_ him rather than worried _for_ him.

More than that, though, he was embarrassed by the reminder that she had a good reason to be worried for him.

When Alastor had been sequestered away in Cannibal Colony, it was easy for him to not remember what he'd been like in the 70s. (Hell, what he had been like in the 70s made it hard for him to remember what he had been like in the 70s.) But now that he was back in the main city, on every block all he could see were bars he'd stumbled out of, alleys he'd passed out in, and hotels where he'd done things he was ashamed to recall.

There was still a wary look in Mimzy's eyes when she playfully said, "Oh, all right." She grabbed a fresh glass and a couple of bottles she'd set aside. "But I'll be watching you two to make sure you aren't stealing sips."

"Haven't you been watching enough TV?" Alastor grabbed the mixed drink and his ginger ale, tipped his own glass to Mimzy, and meandered over to Vox's table.

The click of Alastor setting the glass down was answered by a click from Vox's face and then a sustained hum, as though the screen had only just powered on. Cheerfully, Alastor said, "I saw you from across the bar and thought, 'My, he looks absolutely miserable!'" He placed a foot on the booth seat across from Vox and sat on top of the seat’s back, grinning down at him. "So I thought I'd help make it wor—" The words died with a click of a station switching in his throat.

Vox's face looked like someone had hit a home run into it. A spider web of cracks covered the screen, crawling out from a point on his face in front of his uglier eye. Said eye was currently squeezed shut, as if Vox needed to protect it from being stabbed by the fragments. Several segments of his face weren't illuminated properly—a corner of his mouth twitched and jerked as static made it dance around. A few smaller pieces of his face had fallen out. He was barely holding himself together with clear tape.

Vox opened his damaged eye a slit so he could glower up at Alastor properly. It wasn't glowing right; the red eye was dark and bleary, and the cyan lines around it had dimmed to a bruise-like purple.

Alastor quickly finished, "... worse." _What happened?_

"Humph." Vox turned partially away from Alastor so that he could slide the pupil on the injured side of his face to a less-damaged fragment of his screen. "Of all the times for you to resurface, it figures it'd be now." His voice was edged with ragged static that tickled the outer edges of Alastor's ears.

 _What happened? What happened?_ Alastor switched stations again before the question could try to slide out in whispers hidden in his static. "I always have had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing!" He nodded toward Vox's face. "I hope you got the license plate of the dump truck that did that, I'd like to send them a 'thank you' card."

Vox's expression darkened—literally; the dull gray glow of the blank parts of his screen dimmed closer to black—but he snapped, "The rat you're lookin' for would be my boyfriend, actually."

_Boyfriend?_

Vox snatched up the fresh drink, glared into it contemplatively, and amended himself: "Ex-boyfriend."

"Well!" Alastor mentally fumbled to rearrange his assumptions about Vox. "Ex for good reason, I see."

Either Alastor had done a poorer job than he thought hiding his surprise, or Vox was prickly about his preferences, because Vox muttered, "You don't have a _problem_ with that, do you?"

He didn't need to clarify what _that_ was. Before Alastor could even stop and consider whether he might get a bigger kick out of trying to convince Vox he _did_ have a problem with it, he defensively said, "Of _course_ not. I'm just not used to a public figure—discussing it so freely. At least not outside of private quarters and clubs more discreet than this one."

Vox nodded with a quirk to the corner of his mouth, as if Alastor had confirmed something he'd suspected, and Alastor wondered what it was. Let Vox make his assumptions. If they were right, they were right; if they were wrong, they were funny. "S'amatter?" Vox asked, smirking—it looked painful. "Gay shit wasn't allowed on the radio when you were broadcasting?"

"Oh! You'd be quite surprised," Alastor said, and was privately smug when Vox's good eye _did_ flicker brighter in surprise. "I do believe it was _your_ generation that moved the community from _en vogue_ back to taboo. Glad I missed it."

Sneering, Vox said, "Says the guy who can't hear a man say 'boyfriend' without flinching."

Alastor was quite sure he hadn't flinched, but he wasn't going to argue the point and make Vox think he'd actually managed to hit a nerve. He just rolled his eyes, sipped his drink, and tried to figure out what to do now that his plan to rub salt in Vox's wounds had been disrupted by the discovery that the wound was so much worse than he'd suspected.

His _boyfriend_. Of all possible people. If they were friends, Alastor would have offered to find a shovel and give this ex-boyfriend a matching face. But they weren't friends. And Alastor didn't know what to offer to someone he couldn't stand.

"Valentino," Vox offered unprompted. "You probably don't know the guy. Landed in the 70's. Last time you were in town, he was just a mid-level pimp. I didn't hook up with him until after you'd fucked off to wherever."

Alastor reluctantly slid down to sit across from Vox properly. "Cannibal Colony."

"Shit, that close?" Vox's voice was near lifeless. "When your signal vanished, figured you'd either got offed or found a way to sneak into the outer rings."

"I've only been broadcasting a short-range signal. No point when no one around you has a radio."

"Sounds boring as fuck."

It was. Alastor hadn't moved for the colony's taste in media, but for his health. He'd needed to get away from the bars he'd spent a decade drowning himself in, the Cannibal Colony was frozen in an era where the temperance movement was still thriving, and Rosie had been eager to help him get sober. “It beats getting socked by a mediocre pimp.”

“He’s not mediocre,” Vox said defensively, which seemed to Alastor like the one part of the sentence Vox should least take offense to. “I mean—that’s not even his main industry now, it’s primarily skin flicks. He’s got this whole porn empire now.”

“Does he! So! Now he doesn’t need you anymore.”

“Of course he does, he’s gonna regret—No, you’ve got it wrong, he’s not—he _wasn't_ just using me. Sure, he’s a scumbag and a rat, but we had something _serious_ , not...”

"Oh, no doubt you did!" Alastor laughed. "A man in Hell who just _happened_ to expand his business into an industry his lover all but has a monopoly in, then sent said lover packing with his face in splinters as soon as he'd built himself a little empire—I'm _sure_ it was _true love_ —"

Vox's face flashed a testing patter similar to one on the screen over the bar and let out an awful, shrill, sustained electronic beep. “He didn’t _send me packing_ , I _left_ that mangy rodent’s ass!”

An audience sarcastically applauded. “Begging you to stay, was he?”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“Really, now,” Alastor said dryly.

“I’m fucking serious, static brains." Vox half-stood as far as he could with the table in his way, attempting—rather pathetically—to loom over Alastor, and pointed toward the exit. " _Fuck off._ You’ve got a sterile vacuum tube for a heart, you’ve got no fuckin’ room to talk. You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t _feel_ that.”

Alastor's back stiffened in anger. Oh, how he _wished_ he couldn’t feel that. Less than two decades ago, he could have agreed with Vox. (It felt so short a time ago, years compressed like weeks under the haze of apathy and alcohol.)

But why should Vox enjoy the benefit of getting to dismiss Alastor for not knowing what love was like if Alastor didn't get to enjoy the benefits of not knowing? What the hell did Vox know about him?

As Vox loomed over Alastor, he slouched down in his seat, making himself comfortable, disinterested in Vox’s posturing. “My, aren’t you confident! So sure I’ve never been there. Oh yes, Vox is the only one in Hell who's ever suffered! All cameras on the main character! The rest of us are just background actors for the crowd shots." Alastor scoffed. "Apparently you're the only one who knows what it's like for a relationship to go up in flames! Nobody else has ever had a partnership end in backstabbing and broken bones. Nobody else has ever been betrayed by the very sinner who'd once promised to give them Heaven and Hell. _Only you._ " He shouldn’t have said any of that. He snatched up his ginger ale to shut himself up. It was sour.

Vox had started out scowling, turned half away so that Alastor couldn’t make out the distinct facial features on his glowing screen—all Alastor could see clearly was the cracks and the tape. But slowly, as Alastor spoke, Vox turned to face him again.

It took a force of effort for Alastor to meet his gaze. A stupid outburst. He hadn't even been drunk. He wished he had, at least then he'd have an excuse.

“Yeah?” Something had lit up in Vox’s one good eye so that scattered pixels glowed white, as though they were sparkling. He slowly eased forward, leaning one elbow onto the table. “You know, back in the sixties, when you used to work with...”

Alastor scoffed, harder than he had to, trying to shut Vox up. “Old news.”

“I’d always wondered what happened there.”

“And you’ll keep wondering. I didn’t name names, don’t assume.” He took an aggressive swig from his drink, and was disappointed when it was still only ginger ale.

“Who you working with these days? Rosie?”

“I do favors for her—Rosie’s a _friend._ That’s not a political euphemism for an alliance. I’m not _interested_ in your lot’s ‘overlord’ power games.”

“So you’re on the market?”

Alastor bristled. “I’m not for sale.”

“Psht. You’re unaffiliated and everybody’s got a price.” Vox leaned farther over the table, with a look in his eyes that was far too keen but not predatory enough. It would have been more comfortable if he looked predatory. “You’ve fallen off the airwaves lately.” His words weren't so much hushed as they were artificially quieter, as though he’d turned the volume down on his own voice. “Not just talking about your own private broadcasts—your influence has waned, radio man.”

He was right, and Alastor hated it. It was true that he didn’t give a damn about the overlords’ turf wars and political aspirations—but he cared about his audience, and he cared about radio, and he cared about seeing radio thrive. For his first few decades in Hell, the Radio Demon had lived up to his title; he was the champion of radio, protecting little stations from being swallowed whole and homogenized by the networks that had dominated in the living realm—first he’d guarded AM stations, and then FM—and for a bit, he had even dabbled in television, sheltering local TV stations that were affiliated with radio stations under his guardianship and turning a considering eye toward others.

At the end of the 60s, all that had fallen by the wayside—along with most of his other priorities—when things had fallen apart and he’d stopped caring about much of anything but reaching the bottom of as many bottles as possible as fast as possible. AM radio was still free—even when the Radio Demon had seemingly fallen off the face of Hell, nobody had been stupid enough to fuck with AM—but AM’s audience had shrunk dramatically. Alastor had lost FM. The power vacuum left behind by Alastor’s apathy had invited in the networks.

“I could help you get back on top,” Vox said. A damn bold offer. Vox _was_ the networks. Every FM and TV call sign had a V at the front.

Vox didn’t look smug, though. He wasn’t taunting, wasn’t dangling a temptation. He wasn’t a leering media mogul spinning a deal with a business rival he’d outmaneuvered. His smile was crooked because half of it was cracked too badly to move properly, and one eye was squinted near shut and the other was wide open, and the look in his good eye was bright and hopeful and lonely.

Vox's hope turned Alastor's stomach. Alastor pressed his back into the booth seat, getting as far away from Vox as he could. “I’m on top of all I care to top,” he said airily, imperiously, studying his glass. “I’m not interested in your industries. My name isn’t the Radio-Television-Film Multimedia Demon.”

“Why not? We’d both benefit from it, wouldn’t we? Look, I've never really had a chance to talk to you about this, but I've—I've actually put a lot of thought into this." (Alastor looked up sharply at Vox. Had he?) "I bet you and me could make a helluva team. We’re savvy in the same fields—you understand show biz from a broadcaster’s perspective, I know how management works, we cover each other’s weaknesses, eh? Plus, we both...” Vox’s face was like a moving comic strip character, flat cartoony lines carefully shaped to mimic and pantomime human facial expressions as simply and directly as possible; his expression was pleading, his expression was sympathetic. “We _understand_ each other...”

"I was Valentino."

Alastor imagined he saw another crack form on Vox's face.

With all the scorn he could muster, all his disgust and disdain poured into two words, Alastor sneered, "You thought I was in _your_ shoes?"

Vox didn't respond. His face was perfectly blank, perfectly still, as if a film reel had gotten stuck in its projector with one frame trapped shining at the movie screen. When that happened at picture show theaters, the heat of the projector focused on one point of the film was enough to make it melt, ripping and pulling apart at the middle. Alastor distantly wondered if TV screens worked the same. Could they melt?

But whatever electric tears Vox was capable of shedding, he held them back.

Alastor got to his feet, taking his glass and one of Vox's devils on horseback as he went. "Maybe the antlers fooled you," he said with mocking kindness. "They’re what you'd call _natural camouflage—_ that's a concept that might be familiar to you if you spent more time out in nature than you do in corporate boardrooms and pimps' bedrooms. You see, _unlike_ you, I'm not _prey—_ "

"You've made your point," Vox grumbled. "Fuck me for opening up, right? Now piss off."

"Where's the gratitude! You should consider yourself lucky I don't like the taste of plastic, or I might have taken your bargain! Then you’d be back where you started!" He leaned over the table, planting a hand in front of Vox. "Next time, try crying to the bartender instead. It's traditional!" He lowered his volume. "In fact, I'm good friends with the bartender here, and I do believe she's a bit sweet on you. You should give her a chance. Maybe she'll want to exploit you next—"

Vox flung his drink in Alastor's face. The bar went silent.

Alastor stumbled back, spluttering in distorted voices; when he'd wiped the booze from his eyes, Vox was in his face, so close Alastor could feel the buzzing static field on Vox's screen radiating against Alastor's cheeks. So close that he could see where Vox had lost tiny glass chips where the cracks in his face intersected.

"It's no wonder you lost your audience," Vox growled. "You're just like any other shitty local station that got bought up in the 30s: all you know how to do is spout off bullshit to fill the silence."

Alastor held Vox's glare for a moment longer; then turned away, grimace relaxing into a more natural smile, and addressed the rest of the bar: "Relax! Relax. No need to start planning your exits, this won't escalate into a bar brawl. We're finished. I had it coming." He laughed loudly in the silence. "Go back to enjoying your..." he cast a pointed glance at the TV with its flat VSPN testing signal, "... previously scheduled entertainment."

Alastor walked back up to the bar, licking Vox's booze off his lips as he went. It was the first time he'd tasted hard liquor in half a decade.

When Alastor slid back onto his barstool, Mimzy asked, "He's not coming back, is he?"

Alastor shrugged. "That's up to him, isn't it? I let him know how much you appreciate his business."

Mimzy gave Alastor a tired, hurt look—oh, the pathos in that face, she should've lived long enough to win an Oscar. Alastor shrugged more emphatically. Mimzy shook her head and looked away.

Alastor poured the remains of his ginger ale in an ashtray. "I want a whiskey."

"I'm not giving you whiskey."

Alastor hated Mimzy. "Thank you."

She gave him another ginger ale, then ignored him. When he finished nursing his pathetic drink and stood to leave, Vox was gone.

###

Alastor learned what this Valentino character looked like a month later.

His picture was in the newspaper. Alastor was faintly surprised by his insectile eyes and smooth, hard face; apparently "rat" had been a description of his personality rather than his looks.

The article was about a new television station Valentino owned. 24/7 softcore porn, no commercials; a number on the screen would let viewers order the hardcore cut and would constitute the station's primary revenue source. Valentino had bought out eleven local porn stations, even cut a deal with Mammon to broadcast in Greed. The station was being created in n association with Vox Pop Media—

Alastor let the paper fall flat on the small coffee shop table. He hunched over his coffee, looked away from the article, and watched the passersby out the front windows.

He wondered what Valentino had said.

What do you say after breaking someone. “Sorry”? “I never wanted to hurt you; I just wanted to scare you off because I adore you too much”? “It was a moment of temporary insanity”? “If you give me a chance to do it again, I’ll show you that I won’t”? Which stupid, shallow excuse was worthy of a second chance?

Maybe the two of them had decided the damage wasn't too great to forgive. It wasn't like Valentino had toppled Vox's entire technological kingdom, was it. No, just one broken screen. Screens could be replaced. What was a black eye or two between lovers? Nothing they couldn't repair. And repair again. And again, and again.

Alastor stared into his coffee, and thought about second chances. Asking for them. Getting them.

What selfish cruelty, to go to someone you’d broken and ask them for a second chance.

This _was_ Hell. The weather was terrible and it was impossible to get decent okra, but by and large Hell didn’t live up to its reputation. It wasn’t torturous enough. Perhaps it was the sinners themselves that made up the difference. Either they were constantly aching for some second chance they would never receive, or they were constantly handing out second chances to things that would hurt them—all Hell had to do was make sure they all met the right people to make it feel the worst.

Alastor looked back at the newspaper, flipped to the page where the story continued. There was a picture of Vox and Valentino together, not touching but standing near each other. Looking at each other. They looked happy.

Fuck them. It wouldn’t last. They’d both be better off alone.

Alastor crumpled up the paper, picked up his coffee, and stared dully at the empty chair across his table.

**Author's Note:**

> You’re like “so who the heck WAS Alastor in a relationship with and what DID he do to them???” and I’m like “okay if you made it all the way to the end of the fic you’ve earned it, [here it is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21776062/chapters/51958888).” And if you’ve already read that fic... you’re probably like “god I knew it ur so predictable” and I’m like “yeah i am.”
> 
> Post for this fic (including art!!) available on [tumblr](https://ckret2.tumblr.com/post/638263361278263296/you-can-replace-a-broken-screen-but-not-a-broken) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/ckret2/status/1341591527416578050?s=20). If you enjoyed the fic, comments/reblogs there are highly appreciated (as are comments here)!


End file.
